The Same Sky (8 page)

My dad laughed. “Your mom loved that sort of stuff,” he said.

“What? Parades?” I asked.

“She loved using a glue gun,” said my father.

“Who doesn’t?” said Jane.

“She loved pasting crepe paper onto poster boards,”
said my father. Jane and I exchanged glances: it was rare for our dad to talk about our mom.

“She did?” I prompted.

“She loved modeling clay,” he said. He nodded soberly, then said, “Well, see you later. Told Bill I’d stop in for coffee.” He turned on his heel and strode away from us, toward the Episcopal church, raising his arm in farewell.

“Who’s Bill?” I said.

“The new pastor. He’s young,” said Jane. “How come I don’t remember Mom using modeling clay?”

“She’d make us snakes, little snakes out of clay,” I said. “And she’d make those signs for the store. Remember? ‘Fresh Strawberries’ or ‘Ortega Taco Shells Half Price—Have a Fiesta Tonight!’ ”

“Have a fiesta tonight?” said Jane.

I nodded. Jane looked teary. “Come on,” I said, taking her folding chair and carrying it up Oak Street. “Come on, Jane. Life’s a fiesta.”

She smiled, but it was fake. I was her sister, and could tell.

Late that afternoon, we returned to town for the Fire Hose Fights. Jane, the younger kids, and I piled into the apartment over Hill’s Market to watch the action from the front window. This year, Dennis and their oldest son, Rick, had formed a team. “We’re going to win, Aunt Alice,” Rick, a towering fourteen-year-old and star of the tiny high school’s basketball team, had said the night before. “It’s all about leaning
into
the water.”

“Maybe I should try,” said Jake.

Rick let loose a rude laugh, then caught himself and said politely, “I’m sorry, Uncle Jake. But it’s too late to enter.” He didn’t say that Jake was out of shape and hated to be cold or uncomfortable in any way. Jane had taught him manners, it seemed.

We opened beers as the teams faced each other along Main Street, readying themselves to be battered by water shooting from a fire hose. Dennis and Rick wore football helmets and pads covered by foul-weather coats and pants. Some wore motorcycle helmets or bulletproof vests.

“I really shouldn’t,” commented Jane, taking a large sip of a beer, then putting it aside. Benjamin knocked over a chair and began to wail.

“It never stops,” murmured Jake. I met his gaze and grimaced playfully. Though I’d always wanted children, Jane and Dennis’s life did seem hellish. Our lazy days in Austin seemed like a distant, wonderful dream: crossword puzzles, afternoon siestas. But Jake did not wink in response, or smile. His face was nakedly, painfully sad.

“Oh, have another beer,” I told him, annoyed. He shook his head and looked away. I knew what he wanted from me: sadness equal to his, wallowing, maybe tears. But I was not that sort of woman. I turned my attention from him—he was an adult, after all, and could take care of himself. Though I realized it wasn’t fair or even right, I despised him for his weakness. After all, he was the one who had decided to stop trying for a baby! I had told him a thousand times that taking action was the way to move past sorrow. But perhaps everyone needs to learn this lesson
for themselves. I’d grown impatient waiting for him to figure it out.

“Ow!” shrieked Gilmer, who seemed to have pulled the bathroom shower curtain down and become entangled.

“Oh my God,” said Jane. She pressed her fingers to her eyes.

“What can I do to help?” I said, settling into a chair to watch as the adult teams turned on their jets.

Jane just sighed.

“Holy Christ!” yelled Jake, looking out at Main Street. “Rick and Dennis just knocked somebody down!”

“Yahoo!” cried Jane, cheering up, lifting her fist. “Go, baby!”

Later, we gathered around Jane and Dennis’s dining room table for brisket. “Dad?” said Jane. “Would you like to say grace?”

“Grace?” I said. “Since when do we—”

“God, our Heavenly Father,” said my dad, “we thank you for the food we are about to share. We thank you for our health and our loving family. We ask for your blessings, now and always, and a special blessing for Jane and Dennis’s new baby. Amen.”

Jane lifted her face and met my stunned gaze. “Yup,” she said. Her face was pale, resigned.

“Congratulations, you guys!” said Jake, standing up to hug Jane and Dennis. His words were falsely cheerful, like fluorescent bulbs over a hospital room.

“Wonderful news,” said my father. He repeated, “Wonderful news.” And then Benjamin knocked over his Kool-Aid and began to cry.

“Look at this smoke ring,” said Dennis, holding up his meat and pointing. “We’re in the hands of a master here.”

“Honey,” said Jane, “can you get Ben some more Kool-Aid?”

“No,” said Dennis. “No, I cannot.”

Jane stood up, used her napkin to sop up Benjamin’s spilled drink, and then burst into tears.

“Did I tell you guys,” I said, “that I’m going to help out at the high school?”

“What?” said Jake.

“Yeah,” I said. “The principal of Chávez Memorial High has asked me to meet with some of the kids. I’m going to mentor a girl named Evian when school starts in the fall. In fact, Evian shot her brother. By mistake.”

Even Gilmer went silent. Jane sank back down in her seat, seemingly relieved to be out of the spotlight. “Did you say
shot her brother
?” said my father.

“That’s what I said.”

“Wow,” said Jake, sounding hurt. “I didn’t know you were going to say yes.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said my father.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” said my father. It was the first time he’d ever said anything like this to me. I stuffed a forkful of beans into my mouth. Happiness rose inside me like bread.

13
 

Carla

I
TRIED TO REMEMBER
everything I knew about preparing for a trip to America. I made Junior memorize our mother’s phone number, starting with the magical Austin, Texas, area code, 512. I piled on layers of clothing and strode around our yard, to see if I could take the heat. I practiced tying bottles of water to my waist. I took every
centavo
I had and filled the coffee can, then jammed it deep into my backpack.

“I’m not leaving,” said Junior, sitting cross-legged in the yard.

“Oh yes you are,” I said.

Junior stood. “See you later,” he said, hitching up his pants.

“Where are you going?”

“None of anybody’s business and especially none of yours,” said Junior. I scowled, and he ran off.

“Be back tonight,” I called. I had decided we would leave first thing in the morning. I hoped—dear God, I hoped—that Humberto would join us. I knew it was stupid to try to go to America without a
coyote
, but even with the money my mother had sent that week, we had only thirty U.S. dollars. This was a lot, but it was not enough. When we reached the American border, I hoped it would get all three of us (if Humberto came along) across the Rio Bravo on a raft.

As I’ve said, I believe in God. I could worry about what I could worry about, and I had to trust God to take care of the rest. As my story continues, please remember this. Some of the things that happened to me would ruin a person who did not have faith. If despair runs as deep and fast as the Rio Bravo, my belief that I am not alone forms a lifeboat underneath me, keeping me from drowning. This is hard for an American to understand. Having enough—having too much—enables you to forget that you are not in charge. God is in charge. But letting go of your fear also means you must accept whatever life God gives to you. I believed, as I prepared for my journey, that God had great plans for me. I saw my reunion with my mother, our picnic lunch, as clearly as I saw the pale sky. I thought this faith gave me strength. Then again, I also believed God would save my brother.

So I rummaged through the kitchen, finding the last bits of flour and salt, tying a pillow to my backpack so I could be comfortable until someone took the pillow or I had to leave it behind. To reach The Beast, we had to spend two days hiking through jungle, so I washed our socks and shoes and laid them to dry in the sun.

Humberto stopped by that evening, on his way home from the dump. “You’re not really leaving,” he said, “are you?”

“I am,” I said. “Are you coming along?”

“You’re crazy,” said Humberto. “What about me?”

“You’re invited,” I said, returning to my preparations. Humberto made a huffing sound and kept walking.

“Don’t go without saying goodbye,” he said over his shoulder.

“Okay, I won’t,” I said.

My brother had not come home by dark. I lay down on the pallet and closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was next to me, warm and smelling of sweat and glue. I breathed in slowly, trying to calm myself. Having an addict along on my trip to America was a bad thing. But maybe in Austin, Texas, Junior would be different. A younger, sweeter boy. I cried for just a short time.

When Junior woke at dawn, I said, “Just tell me why, Junior. Why are you sniffing Resistol?”

He looked straight at me, unashamed. “When I have glue, I’m not hungry,” he said. He reached inside the pocket of his pants. Before he could unscrew his glass bottle, I slapped it from his hands.

“No more,” I said.
“No more.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” said Junior, his tone attempting bravado.

“Please,” I said.

“Give it to me,” said Junior. “Give it to me or I’ll go get more.”

“You don’t have any money!” I said. But then I understood. All I had to do was look to see the empty coffee can on the floor.

14
 

Alice

I
N COLORADO, YOU
felt fall in your bones—the temperatures dropped, the leaves turned flame-colored, and snow began to accumulate on the mountains. In Texas, fall felt about the same as summer: hot as hell. I could only tell that the school year had begun by the hordes of UT students who arrived at Conroe’s, sipping beer through the sweltering mornings. Principal Markson stopped in to celebrate the first day of school with a Sweet Stacy and a lemonade.

“Are you still up for visiting Evian?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, not feeling sure at all.

“Excellent,” she said, grabbing a Conroe’s BBQ pen. She jotted down directions to Evian’s house on a napkin using her left hand, not wanting to put down the sandwich she was clutching in her right. (In her defense, the Sweet
Stacy
does
fall apart if you loosen your grip; there’s a lot of meat jammed into that bun.)

The following weekend, I told Jake I wouldn’t be able to make our usual Saturday afternoon paddle. He had already laid out picnic ingredients in the kitchen. “What do you mean?” he said. “I can’t go without you—I need a shuttle. We always canoe on Saturdays!” Jake put down the mayonnaise and crossed his arms.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was—I loved our lazy trips. I explained that I’d made plans to meet Evian, the troubled teen.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” said Jake, exasperated.